One Billion Credits
by WhiteWings9
Summary: Every year in a dystopian future, the State brings out a new line of sex dolls who are available to anyone for a night at a price. Russia/America. Recalibrated!AU. Porn with plot.
1. Privation

**One Billion Credits  
Part 1 – Privation**

Ivan had allotted himself six months to amass the small fortune of one billion credits. That was six months of hard work, of being the first to clock in and the last to clock out on his work machine, and a spartan lifestyle devoid of the comfort and luxuries available within the Hive.

He drank only water instead of flavoured drinks; virtually free at only ten credits per glass. He also took to skipping a meal or two in the beginning before he got clever enough to scavenge leftovers from his colleagues in the canteen; a half-finished bag of chips here, the dregs of a bowl of noodles there, and he was eating for free some days.

He calculated his time in the shower, used as little hot water as he needed, and saved a few credits there too. He had been using the same razor blade he had for over three months, squeezed the last tube of toothpaste to the very end for almost a week, and went without shampoo since finishing the last bottle a little over a month ago now. It was uncomfortable, but as he was so close to reaching the billion credit mark, he did not care.

And of course, he did not skip the commercial breaks when watching the telescreen in his cubicle, which saved him another ten credits per two-minute advertisement.

The telescreen was another arm of the State delving into the personal lives of workers. Installed in everyone's cubicle and on every available wall surfaces of the Hive, they play advertisements and State-funded programmes on an endless loop at every minute of every hour of every day. You could not switch them off. You could only dim the screens and lower the volume at night to go to sleep, but during the day you were not even allowed to look away from the screen. Any attempt to do so, and the screen would bathe your cubicle in angry red lights as a disembodied voice commands you to, _"Please resume viewing…"_

He had endured six months' worth of advertisements to the point where he knew the jingle to every bright, cheap and gaudy graphics lasered into his eyeballs.

But there was one advertisement he enjoyed watching. Whenever he felt his resolve slipping; cold and tired from a hard sixteen-hour shift, parched for something stronger than water, and stomach gnawing on a disappointing dinner of refrigerated sandwiches or whatever else that was available at a hundred credits or less from the vending machines… When that advertisement came on, he was reminded why he was doing this, and it was just enough incentive to stop himself from ordering that thousand-credit takeaway meal from the grease shop.

_"New from _Sex Babes_, the hottest babes doing the nastiest things!"_ the voiceover leered as the screen blared hot, throaty moans and close-ups of flawlessly waxed, sweat-sheen flesh.

"Alfred," he would whisper, eyes fixed to the wheat-blond, blue-eyed figure strutting down the glass catwalk in knee-high stiletto boots and a skin-tight costume that exposed more than it covered, before cutting to a loop of him swinging athletically around a pole. His asking price was displayed in stark white against a multi-coloured backdrop: one billion credits.

He would settle into the covers of his bed, hand reaching to massage his arousal, as he watched with avid greed the screen parading the new sex doll that haunted his waking dreams.

* * *

Every season the State introduces a new line of sex dolls to service the workers of the Hive. The dolls were available in both sexes and in a range of builds, hair colour and skin tones, to cater to every taste. They were for everyone as no one person can own them, and they were available on a nightly basis to anyone who could afford the price.

The prices range from only a hundred credits a night from the old, over-worked models of last season, to anywhere in the tune of millions for so much as a glimpse of the latest line advertised on telescreens. The prices were entirely dependent on their popularity score, and this season Alfred Jones – voted most desirable by more consumers than any other sex dolls in the past – reached a record high of one billion credits a night.

"No-one can afford that!" was the unanimous cry of the workers as the State had him dance tantalisingly beyond their reach onscreen in different get-ups.

They were angry. At work they booed and threw things at the screens whenever Alfred came on, moaning and writhing on someone else's cock. They watched the videos of him loop over and over again – previews to further viewing in their own cubicles, should they choose, at a special price – and they were all crazed with desire and envy. Everyone had seen the short clips of him sucking off a stranger then riding his cock. Everyone dreamt of giving him their own cock one day, ramming it into his mouth then his ass, the filthy little slut. For the nights he went unbought – he was very expensive, after all, and few workers could afford him – he was available on a free live feed masturbating, stroking and fingering desperately at himself, unable to come _because he was not allowed to_, and begging for someone to _please please please fuck him_ as his impossible price of one billion credits flashed on the bottom corner of the telescreen.

Ivan would watch the live feeds, tighten his belt, and grimly tot up his expenses on a spreadsheet.

On his last couple of hundred credits to his goal, he stayed at his work machine hours after his last colleague had left for home. He worked through the night, watching his credit counter crawl up and up, and when he finally reached the billion credit mark he sank bonelessly from his machine to the floor, too tired to cheer. He gasped for air, his every muscle screaming from the burn as sweat poured in buckets from his brows. He could not breathe, but he did not care; he simply shook with silent, happy laughter.

* * *

_Welcome to _Sex Babes_, how may we help you?_

Ivan scanned over the buttons on his screen, scrolling past the offers for pornographic films, and selected with a wave of his hand the option which read: _Buy a night._

_You have selected to buy a night with us. Which model would you like to book?_

Alfred Jones was at the top of the list, of course, along with his price. He beckoned at Alfred's name, which brought his profile zooming to the foreground as the back melted to the short loop of him pole-dancing.

_Would you like to book an appointment with Alfred Jones?_

He waved yes. A loading screen came on – presumably checking he had sufficient credits in his account – and he settled back in bed, trembling with anticipation.

_One billion credits will now be deducted from your account._

Ivan watched as the counter for his credits plummeted. He was left with only a couple of thousand credits by the end of it, but he did not care. He now had Alfred Jones.

_Thank you for buying with us. Your appointment has been booked for this Saturday on July 4th 3013._

It was done! He could hardly believe it. He whooped in silent joy.

_As a special bonus your model will now speak with you._

His soaring heart dropped as quickly as the counter for his credits had done.

What?

The screen went blank for a moment, before flickering to Alfred Jones in a video he had never seen before, in a room with a large bed and soft muted lighting he had also never seen before. He watched, dry-mouthed, as Alfred slowly took off the plastic visor wrapped around his eyes, revealing for the first time just how bright and blue they were naked.

"Hello, Ivan Braginski," Alfred greeted in a soft, husky voice.

Ivan took in a sharp intake of breath. For a moment he could have sworn that Alfred had looked right at him, but that was absurd! This was only a pre-recorded video after all or – or a live feed, the live feed light was flashing… But there was no way Alfred could actually _see_ him from the other side of the screen…

Alfred smiled as if he knew what Ivan was thinking, but he chose to say nothing.

"Thank you for buying a night with me," he said instead. "I look forward to seeing you very soon. But should you wish to cancel our appointment, we at _Sex Babes_ would like to inform that you have only twenty-four hours after purchase to do so at a half refund…"

Ivan was shaking his head no, he would never cancel on their appointment, and Alfred stopped. Alfred smiled again. Ivan felt his stomach flip.

Alfred leaned forwards toward the camera, beckoning for Ivan to do the same – Ivan did find himself leaning towards his screen – and in a low, conspiratorial tone, Alfred whispered, "Here's a little something to show you just how grateful I am to you for purchasing me."

He spun around on his heels, and Ivan watched as the camera followed Alfred click-clicking on his stiletto boots to the side of the grand bed. He drank in Alfred's profile from the back, eyes roving up from his delectable rear to the barcode tattoo just visible on the nape of his neck – the mark of State property. Then he snapped to the object Alfred had pulled out of the bedside drawer.

It was a dildo, a really big dildo.

"Well, what do you think?" Alfred asked with a smirk over his shoulder. "It's one of my favourites, do you like it? Hm? Would you like to see me play with it?"

Ivan could only gape.

"Cat got your tongue?" Alfred giggled. Then his expression softened. Suddenly coy, he dropped his eyes and whispered, "What would you like me to do?"

Ivan swallowed hard, saying nothing.

Alfred took his silence as his cue to suck off the dildo. The camera focused on his mouth as he worked expertly on the toy, licking and drooling copiously, cheeks hollowed out as he slurped and sucked in on its length, his eyes heavily hooded, his breathing rolling out in heavy, shallow breaths…

Ivan let out an involuntary whimper, and Alfred's eyes flicked up with a wicked gleam. Without warning he threw back his head – the camera rushing to focus and re-adjust its angle – and Ivan watched, wide-eyed, as Alfred swallowed the toy almost whole and let out a low, throaty hum.

"Alfred!" Ivan whispered hoarsely, needily, reaching for his growing erection.

Alfred pulled the dildo out of his mouth with a wet lewd pop, facing the camera again. "I want you in me," he breathed. Eyes never leaving Ivan's, he felt his way up onto the bed, spread open his legs – Ivan noticed then that there was a slit in his costume exposing his genitals – and brought the saliva-slicked dildo to himself. "I want you so bad," Alfred whispered, and he pushed the dildo into himself with a half-sob.

Ivan stared as Alfred crammed in the impressive length of the toy in one hard, squelchy thrust. He bucked and he gasped, eyes widened to an impossible blue. Then he let out a long, pleasured sigh.

"Fuck me_, please_," he pleaded with lips moistened to a rude shade of pink.

Ivan ripped open the flies of his work trousers, brought out his erection, and pumped furiously as Alfred fucked himself with the toy, crying, "_Mm, yes, yes, just like that! Mmmh… ahh… yes! Ahh… it feels good… ah… it feels so good…_"

_He was fucking Alfred. He was pressing him down into the soft, decadent bed, holding his legs spread as he fucked him, thrusting into him hard, fast and desperate, a punishing pace, as Alfred moaned and melted and egged him eagerly on._

_"Just like that! Yes! Ah, please! More, more! Yes! Ah, just like that…!"_

Ivan found himself peaking quickly, much too quickly. He felt a knot tightening from the back of his navel, and he came with a noisy, winded groan, spilling liberally all over his sheets as he came hard and rough. Keeled over forwards on his knees, one hand clutching tight to his soiled sheets as the other cradled his softening cock, he panted for breath, blinking back some colour to his eyes as he gazed up to the screen.

"Alfred…" he whispered lovingly.

Alfred had also come, and was streaked up to his face in his own cum. He wiped some of the white, sticky mess with his fingers from his face, and making sure Ivan was watching through bleary eyes, he stuck the digits into his mouth and sucked them clean.

"That felt _really _good, Ivan," Alfred murmured, eyes half-lidded in a sated, dreamy look.

But there was something not quite right about him. Ivan could not place just what it was that was wrong with the picture, until Alfred blinked and brought his attention to it.

It was his eyes; there was something very wrong with them.

They stared blankly at him, lifeless.

Alfred blinked again and, suddenly self-conscious, he sat up, picked up the plastic visor that had fallen from his person onto the bed, and slipped them back on. When he looked up, he was back to his beautifully distant, seductive self.

"I can't wait to meet you, Ivan Braginski," he said, licking his lips. "Until then."

The screen fizzled out into static. A moment later the usual run of advertisements came on, leaving Ivan knelt in his own mess to stare at ugly graphics playing to canned laughter.

* * *

**Author's note**

This fic is an amalgamation of concepts lifted from a lifetime of reading and watching popular dystopian fiction. There are nods to _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ (Orwell), _Brave New World_ (Huxley), and countless many more texts from which I've taken the usual tropes of nuclear fallouts, underground cities, an oppressed class of people and a powerful, all-seeing ruling elite. But deserving of special mention are:

1) _Fifteen Million Merits_ from Channel 4's _Black Mirror_ series, itself an Orwell-inspired story, from which the concept of pornography-on-demand and X Factor-style TV voting was specially lifted from along with the line: "_New from_ Sex Babes, _the hottest babes doing the nastiest things!_"

2) Yoshihara Rieko's cult classic yaoi series _Ai no Kusabi_, for the concept of lobotomised humans sold and abused as sex dolls in a debauched dystopian future.

3) Shieunni's recalibrated!AU Hetalia doodles on Tumblr, from which the fic's taken its AU name and whose visuals I draw heavily upon, especially for Alfred's costumes.

Although none of the fic's special concepts are original to me, I must stress that _**every word of it is written myself, and neither consciously nor directly lifted from any text except where noted.**_

Thank you for reading and I hope you've enjoyed it so far :D


	2. Compliance

Just want to warn you this is not a pleasant chapter to read. There's some background, a bit of world-building, and no sexytiems this time. Sexytiems will all be in the next part if this one doesn't turn you off the rest of the story (the next part will make up for this one I swear! _ )

**Please read the warnings for this part and take them seriously: ****Bondage, drug use, electrocution, lobotomy, noncon, OC death, sadism, violence.**

If there's anything listed that's triggering for you, please don't read this chapter. If in doubt,_ please don't read this chapter._ I actually shocked and disgusted myself writing this part, but that's how the story has chosen to unfold for me.

* * *

**One Billion Credits  
Part 2 – Compliance**

_We are going to make an example of you._

That was when Alfred knew everything had gone wrong. The screen brought up his files – name, age, home address, photographs, university registration; everything that made up his existence in the eyes of the State – and deleted them from the Database.

He was no longer a Citizen.

Before he could protest, someone grabbed him from behind and slammed him forward across the table. He screamed to be released, to be given a second chance, _this was_ _a mistake!_

_The State does not make mistakes._

"Let me go!" he cried.

He elbowed his assailant hard in the stomach and almost shook free from him, but a bigger, burlier man stepped up in his place and threw him back down. The edge of the table slammed painfully into his midriff, winding him. His breathing grew erratic; he was in full-blown, crippling panic.

"Lift your eyes for the laser now," one of them, a woman, said calmly, sounding almost bored.

They had to force him to do it. Someone yanked him back by his hair and forced his eyelids open with gloved fingers. He stared into the laser, tears welling and tracking down his cheeks as the beam scrambled the pattern of his irises, destroyed his biometric identification.

_Subject is in prime physical condition._

_Penalty for crimes committed: Recalibration to the Pleasure Facility._

* * *

_Six months later…_

* * *

Alfred woke with a sharp, choked scream.

He had a nightmare, it _had_ to be a nightmare…

He blinked, wincing up at the light glaring from the ceiling. The entire room was bathed in white; white lights, white floors, white walls, white countertops – a cold, clinical room with a stale, air-conditioned non-scent. The whiteness proved to be very disorientating as he looked around him.

Where was he?

He tried to sit up, but found he was strapped to the table he was lying on and thumped back down. He ached all over. He was very thirsty.

Then everything came flooding back; _the Justice courts, the sentencing, the screams and the terror, and… and…_

"Let me out! _Let me out!_" he yelled, his fear bubbling over. He tugged at his restraints; they have put him in a straitjacket, he found, and it tipped him into greater panic. He rocked violently from side to side, roaring, _"LET ME OUT!"_

Where was he? Where have they taken him?

A door slid smoothly open from a corner of the room. He stopped shouting then and dropped still, gazing fearfully at the figure advancing on him; someone in a lab coat, with an amused, unfriendly smile.

"Wh-who are you?" he demanded in a small, timorous voice.

"Someone who is going to make it all better now," the man said as he stepped up to the table. He had blond messy hair and sharp green eyes that did not seem to register Alfred at all.

He reached over to the side of Alfred and picked up something from a metal tray; a syringe.

Alfred shook his head. "No," he begged. "No, stop! _Stop!_"

The man held Alfred's head down and twisted it to the side. Alfred shuddered in the confines of his bonds, his eyes screwed shut, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"No wonder you woke up on the wrong side of bed," the man said with a little tut, his hand touching something plastered to the side of Alfred's neck. He picked under with a fingernail and tore it loose, and held it up for Alfred to see.

It was a square transparent patch with one word stamped across the middle of it: Compliance.

"You were all out of Compliance," the man said, waving the patch as he stroked Alfred's hair in what was meant to be in a soothing manner. "Not to worry. I'll sort a new one out for you after we've fixed you up a bit."

"Just who are you? And where am I? Wh-what's happening?"

The man let out a deep sigh.

"You ask the same bloody questions every time you come back… Now if they had only allowed me the procedure…"

"C-come back?"

The man smirked. Alfred did not like the look in his eyes.

Crossing his arms over his chest just under the stethoscopes slung around his neck, the man said, "I am Dr Arthur Kirkland. I am in charge of your… welfare, shall we say? It is my job to keep you under and to make sure you're always in tip-top condition, free from diseases, every bit of you clean and in order..."

His eyes flicked down the length of Alfred's body with a suggestive leer.

"Now, as to where you are…"

The doctor leaned curiously over Alfred, bringing their faces to within inches apart. Alfred stared up into the pitiless depths of his cold green eyes.

"…have you really not a clue?" the doctor whispered.

Alfred knew, or thought he knew, but he did not want to believe it. He looked beseechingly up at the doctor, begging for an answer that was not… not _that…_ anything but _that…_

The doctor straightened up, re-crossing his arms. "You're in the Pleasure Facility," he said briskly. "You've been recalibrated. You'll find the memory of it somewhere in your mind, I'm sure. I haven't touched anything beyond your last birthday…"

"B-birthday?" Alfred repeated stupidly. He was numb all over.

"Yes, boy, your bir– why, but it's today!" the doctor said with exaggerated delight. He glanced down at his silver timepiece. "Fourth of July, was it? Well congratulations, but I'm afraid it's still work as usual for you. No rest for the wicked."

The doctor snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and took up the syringe again. He uncapped the plastic top from the needle, and held it up to the light as he squirted out a little of whatever was in it, to make sure there was no air bubbles trapped inside.

Alfred started to struggle again at the sight of it.

"Be still, boy, it's only a sedative," the doctor said impatiently.

"Please let me go!" Alfred sobbed. "I'm begging you, please! I want to go home, I want t–"

The doctor made shushing noises as he held Alfred down. Alfred tensed up. His breathing came out sharp and shallow, his eyes pouring with tears, blurring his vision until everything was blotted out. The doctor brought the needle down.

"It's all right now," the doctor murmured as he injected it straight in the jugular. Alfred let out a whimpering cry.

The sedative was very potent and worked quickly. As blackness began to creep in from all corners of the room, Alfred felt his mouth go slack, the strain in his body lifting as his muscles loosened and relaxed. His fight to stay conscious was quickly turning into a losing battle as his eyelids grew heavy with sleep.

"Isn't that better now?" the doctor's voice sounded as if it was floating from over a great distance, but Alfred could still detect the laugh in it as he sneered, "Feels _good_, doesn't it? Oh and one more thing before you go back to sleep…

_"You are home."_

* * *

The Hive is a metropolis home to over sixteen million Citizens. The Hive's Citizens are those who are registered in the Database, excluding sex dolls (euphemistically labelled sub-Citizens that have a separate registry similar to pets and property) and illegal immigrants from neighbouring Hives. Anyone not in the Database is excluded from access to housing, education, health care, legal services, and state protection – and even their basic right to life.

Among the Citizens, there is a strict three-ranking class system that is vigorously policed. At the top are the Elites, a select group of only ten people who have inherited their positions from the founders of the Hive many hundreds of years ago. They govern all the inner workings of the Hive, and live separate from everyone else in the very heart of the city, in opulence rumoured to be beyond the conceivable.

The class below them are the State Citizens who make up a little over a quarter of the total Citizen population. They are the middle class, the ones who run the general affairs of the State in businesses, schools and hospitals, with the legal right to marry, have a family, and buy property including, if they so wish, their very own sex dolls.

Making up the majority of the population at the bottom are a nameless class of workers who live all their lives in the outskirts of the Hive in Designated Areas. All workers are given only the most basic education and health care, and are strictly forbidden from owning property. They eat, sleep, and play in State-provided cubicles, and work every day of their lives at machines that generate food and power for the whole Hive.

For a worker, access into the Hive proper is very restricted. A majority of workers would never put so much as a toe out of their Designated Areas in their lifetime, but permission to travel can be granted to exceptionally hard-working Citizens. Outings to the Zoo, Park, Shopping Centre, and of course the Pleasure Facility, can be bought with credits earned from clocking in to work.

Ivan stood gaping about him. He had just stepped out of the Tube station, the first time he had ever gone beyond the borders of his Designated Area, and he could hardly believe what he was seeing.

For one, there was just so much _space_. When he tilted his head up there was no ceiling, only floors and floors as far as his eyes could see, which made him dizzy. Around him were milling with people of all backgrounds, many in unbelievably lavish clothing; wool, cashmere, leather, fabrics he did not even know the name of, and all in a dazzling array of colours and cuts. There were long coats and dresses, smart suits and cute skirts; hats, shades, gloves, shoes and jewellery, more accessories than he ever knew existed to adorn a person, and his mind reeled from the extravagance.

Beside them, he thought he must stand out in his simple worker's attire of a cotton shirt and overalls. He felt very self-conscious.

As he wandered through the city, he was struck by a sudden observation: not everyone was equal here. This might seem a strange thing to notice for someone who knew his place was firmly in the lower class, but in Designated Areas he only ever saw his equals among his colleagues. He had never seen the classes clash like this. Once he noticed this, he was able to distinguish a worker from a State Citizen, and a State Citizen from a sex doll.

The more beautifully dressed, heavily made-up, lavishly adorned people he had taken for rich State Citizens were actually sex dolls. He saw now that they sported barcode tattoos on the nape of their necks and both upper arms, and often trailed a step or two behind who must be their owners. Some were got up in blatantly sexy costumes that flattered their curves and exposed naked flesh. Some even wore a collar with a leash tugged by their owners. As he walked amongst them, gawping at all the excess, Ivan came to realise that in comparison, the sex dolls advertised to him and his colleagues back home were actually quite conservatively dressed.

There was so much to take in, he could spend all night just looking; the giant billboards advertising luxury goods, the night clubs heaving with patrons and blaring music, the shop windows as high as four floors, decked with mannequins modelling the latest fashion or displaying gadgets he did not know the functions of…

He was staring so much around him – head twisting from side to side, trying to see everything – that he did not see the Thought Police standing by the lamppost until he was almost on him.

"Excuse me!" the Thought Police said, bristling with indignation.

Ivan jumped almost out of his skin. "Sorry, I'm so sorry!" he babbled.

"Watch where you're going!"

Ivan stood meekly by as the Thought Police brushed down his uniform and straightened himself.

The Thought Police had a pair of dark, disconcertingly red pupils that were in sharp contrast to his pale complexion. In his jack boots, hat with the insignia of the State pulled over white-blond hair, and the handle of an electric baton peeking out from under his coat, he cut for an intimidating, authoritative figure even though he was a fair few centimetres shorter than Ivan.

As his unusual eyes travelled up and down the length of Ivan in his worker's uniform, they narrowed together in suspicion.

"Not from around here, are you? You got a permit?"

He raised a leather-gloved hand and made an impatient beckoning motion with it. Ivan gave him his hand to show the travel permit stamped to his wrist.

Just then, a girl let out a piercing scream from the middle of a crowd. The crowd parted in a circle around the scene but continued to move along, unwilling to get involved. Ivan stared in bewilderment. A man was holding a girl tightly by her upper arm in one hand as he beat her savagely with the other, yelling, "I'll teach you to steal from me, you fucking whore!"

The Thought Police looked up with a frown. "What the…"

He dropped Ivan's hand and ran over to the scene. Ivan pulled down his shirt sleeve. He wasn't sure whether or not he was free to leave, so he decided to stay and watch, a morbid curiosity overriding his apprehension.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he heard the Thought Police demand. If the crowd before had been sidestepping the scene, they now gave it a wide berth.

To Ivan's astonishment, the man looked pleased to see the Thought Police whereas the girl took to trembling all over, her eyes bloodshot with terror. She could not have been older than sixteen.

"Officer, this _piece of trash_ tried to steal my credits," the man said. He threw the girl violently to the ground, and she fell limp as a marionette with her strings cut, weeping. A dozen or so plastic credit cards clattered out of her pockets on to the pavement, glimmering in the city lights.

The Thought Police stared down at the girl weeping over her stolen credits. After a while, he waved for the man to leave them. The man did so reluctantly, hacking his throat and spitting at the girl before stalking off.

Ivan noticed then that the girl had barcode tattoos on her arms. She was a sex doll, but what a pitiful sight she made. Her frock, once magnificent undoubtedly, was torn and caked with grime. Ivan had assumed she was a short-haired model, but upon closer inspection he saw that the ends were unevenly cut; someone had hacked off her hair, and none-too-gently by the looks of it. As she sat in the dirt of the ground, weeping piteously and rubbing her swollen eyes with the balls of her palm, Ivan felt his heart go out to her.

"Someone discarded you, eh?" he heard the Thought Police say to her.

He had unsheathed his baton and was prodding the tip of it at one of her barcode tattoos; she flinched from it, hiccoughing. The Thought Police withdrew his weapon.

"Don't worry," Ivan heard him say in a strangely flat voice. "I'll put you out of your misery."

The baton slammed across the side of her head. She fell without another sound to the ground and stopped moving, stopped weeping altogether. Seeing her lying so still and silent made for a more upsetting picture than when she had been crying. But the Thought Police was not quite finished with her. As Ivan watched with mounting horror, he plunged the baton down her frock between her breasts and let loose the full voltage of his weapon through her heart.

Her body shuddered as the current ran through her. She was a puppet dancing to an ugly tune, jerking up and down, head lolling from side to side, as the Thought Police delivered enough ampage to kill a full grown man. Ivan felt sick watching her. But he was the sole witness to the scene – everybody else walked past the girl as if her murder was of no consequence to their lives.

And why should it be? She was only a sex doll, a lobotomised sub-Citizen with no rights, and an abandoned, thieving one at that…

It seemed to take the Thought Police an age to finish his grim errand. When he was satisfied that the girl was dead, he pulled the baton from her smoking, twitching body and sheathed it again.

"Another one?"

A second Thought Police, taller and bigger built with gelled blond hair and dark blue eyes, came jogging up to his red-eyed colleague. He held two steaming Styrofoam cups in his hands.

"These goddamned sex dolls," Red-Eyes grumbled. He accepted a cup with a curt nod of thanks, adding, "Get her cleaned up."

As his colleague tuned in a radio to order a clean-up, Red-Eyes turned away from the girl as if he could no longer bear to look at her. That's when he noticed that Ivan was still standing there by the lamppost.

Raising his coffee in a small toast, Red-Eyes said in a booming voice that travelled over the babble of the crowd, "Welcome to the Hive!"

Ivan wished he had left after all.

* * *

**Author's note**

I did debate whether or not to use Hetalia characters for the 'villain' roles, and settled to do so in the end because otherwise the chapter would be nothing but OCs. But not to worry, they only appear fleetingly for this part. The focus is still squarely on Ivan and Alfred's relationship!

In this part I've lifted extensively from Shieunni's recalibrated!AU doodles and creepy lobotomising nurse!England doodles on Tumblr.

The concept for a Compliance drug was taken from_ Fifteen Million Merits_ (see end notes in previous chapter), and the idea for the drug in patch form was taken from a_ Doctor Who_ episode I saw a long time ago (sorry I don't remember the season or episode it was from, but I think it was during Tenth's era).


	3. Insatiable

**One Billion Credits  
Part 3 – Insatiable**

How he got to the Pleasure Facility, Ivan will never know; he had walked the rest of the way there in a daze and saw no more of the sights. When he got to the entrance of _Sex Babestation_, he stood staring at it for a moment.

The front side of the building was an enormous billboard playing the same pulsating images of the season's line-up broadcasted on every telescreen back home. Alfred Jones featured very prominently here as well; the catwalk and price tag loop, the pole dancing loop, the close-up of his face during his debut riding hard on a stranger; his blue eyes hooded, his mouth stained with cum, falling slack as he silently moaned…

_Ah, we've been expecting you, sir._

It was the first time Ivan had ever been addressed 'sir', and he did not know what to make of it. His booking was checked, his travel permit renewed for the return journey (another sting of the laser stamp to his wrist), then he was herded into a lift and up to a room, the very same room Alfred had addressed him from in his private show for him.

_Alfred will be arriving shortly_, the attendant politely assured him. Ivan smiled feebly as the attendant gave a small bow, backed out of the room, and shut the doors.

The room was even more sumptuous to behold in person, but Ivan hardly saw it. Locating the bathroom door, he half-strode half-ran to it, waved over the sensor to undo the latch, and lunged over to the wash basin. He was convinced he was going to be sick and retched a little, but nothing came up. It was just as well. But he did look awful, his face lined and grey as if he had aged considerably since stepping out of the Tube station.

Slowly, he turned on the tap, scooped the water with his hands, and splashed it over his face, sighing as he washed the dirt of the city from himself. The water felt cool against his heated skin. When he was finished, and was drying his face on a hand towel hung to his side, he sensed that he was not alone and wheeled sharply around.

"Hello, Ivan Braginski," Alfred greeted him from the doorway, the same way he had over the live feed, except this time he was saying it in person and his voice sounded even sweeter.

_Alfred_, he wanted to say, but could not. All that came out was a small squeak.

Unperturbed, Alfred took his weight off the door frame and stepped into the bathroom with a click of his heels. Within moments he was up against Ivan, pressing his body to his, running smooth gloved hands up the side of Ivan's face, still damp from the wash. Their lips hovering a breath's width apart, it was a small step for Alfred to swallow the distance between them and connect to Ivan in a heated, open-mouthed kiss; Ivan's first kiss.

Ivan froze. Alfred was… practiced. Yes, that was it. He was skilled, his lips soft and pliant even as he demanded, and in his surprise and inexperience, Ivan simply stood agape. When Alfred finally pulled from him with a deliberate smacking sound – a string of saliva connecting them still, blue eyes hooded behind plastic lightly-tinted shades – Ivan simply stared.

He had Alfred right here in the flesh and in his arms. His hands skirted up Alfred's hip bones to his naked waist, one hand smoothing up his back to the laces of his leather corset as the other reached down to give his rear a squeeze. Alfred gave a delicious little gasp at that. Ivan pressed them tighter together, his passion rising and spilling over as he finally verbalised, "Alfred…"

The telescreen never told how soft and smooth his skin was to the touch, how toned his muscles were flexing underneath. It never told of the scent or taste of him, velvety and intoxicatingly sweet – nor the precise timbre of his voice as he encouraged Ivan's roaming advances with moans and purrs and soft, feathery sighs. He was kissing Alfred wherever his lips met him – mouth, chin, cheeks, eyelids; a shower of loving tributes upon his face – and his hands touched him all over in places he could not reach to kiss.

Alfred let out a sudden gasp. Ivan took the opportunity to press to him an open-mouthed kiss of his own, devouring Alfred with hungry, sloppy, inexperienced lips. Alfred shuddered and gasped some more, both hands clutching at Ivan's, the one slid down his hot pants and massaging his arousal. The garment slipped down to his thighs as Ivan kneaded him to full hardness, thumbing his beading precum to spread and lubricate him, casually tugging him off. But this was not what Alfred wanted.

"No, _fuck me!_" Alfred hissed. The composed seducer from moments before had quietly melted to the harried, desperate being that now stood before Ivan, eyes wild with a new urgency. He grabbed Ivan's hand from himself and pulled, dragged him stumbling out of the bathroom and towards the bed, Ivan following as quickly as he could.

Alfred shimmied out of his pants, a mere ornament with little practical function, with a practiced if trembling flaunt. He was painfully erect, his member flushed, but he paid his arousal little mind and simply reached round to prepare himself. Ivan cottoned on quickly, and turned Alfred around and bent him over the bed, adding his own fingers to Alfred's entrance.

"Oh!" Alfred gasped.

Ivan was a little taken aback at how hot and tight Alfred felt around his fingers, how wet… how _prepared_ he was all slick with lubrication down there. The thought of fucking him, of replacing his fingers with his cock and fucking him, sent shivers of anticipation thrilling up his spine. As he spread and scissored his fingers inside of him, he felt Alfred grow taut with tension, his throat reverberating with a high, keening sound as he hummed, "_Mmmhh…!_"

Alfred pushed hard into Ivan's fingers, his ass puckering, squelching around his long, exploring digits, drawing them in and deep. At Alfred's breathy request, Ivan added a third finger and rotated them in him, stretching and feeling around the soft, heated walls of his flesh. He felt Alfred stiffen as he brushed against something in him, and pressed into him again, hard; Alfred let out a little _oh_ of surprise. Pleased at the sound it elicited, Ivan twisted his fingers and hammered repeatedly against that pleasure spot, pushing Alfred to writhe and mewl beneath him in helpless pleasure.

"Enough, _please!_" Alfred cried suddenly, loud enough to tear his lungs out.

He let out a weak sob as Ivan immediately stopped and pulled out his fingers. Ivan was worried that he might have hurt Alfred and began to apologise, but Alfred was twisting round, and reaching to pull Ivan down and over him, bringing their faces close together.

"P-put it in," Alfred whispered on a great shuddering breath. Ivan froze, feeling all the blood in him drain to his groin. Alfred stared up at Ivan, his eyes searching, frantic, close to tears. "Ivan, p-please," he whimpered. "Please p-put it in, Ivan, put it in inside m-m–"

Ivan cut him off with a swift hard kiss, swallowing his plea. Then he pulled back, fumbled with the fastening of his trousers, and brought out his own erection, stroking it, slicking it with the lubricant from Alfred's ass. Alfred flopped back down, his breathing quickening with anticipation.

Carefully positioning himself, Ivan pushed with little resistance into Alfred in one squelching stroke. He paused, letting out a choke from the sensation around his cock; wet, heated, and impossibly, impossibly tight, he could cum right then and there, he thought. He pushed himself all the way in, his eyes crossing as he groaned, unable to believe that anything could feel _so good…_

Alfred cried out in pleasure – in _relief_ – lips stretched to a tight, wobbly grin. "_Yes!_" he hissed, scrabbling at the sheets with his gloved fingers. He ground his hips against Ivan; oh but he was _big_, he felt so _full_, so _tight_ in him, and wept, "_Yes_, oh god _yes!_"

Ivan began to move inside of him, slowly at first, just rocking his hips and thrusting his length inside of Alfred. He held himself up by his hands planted by the sides of Alfred, and he was bent low, low enough over Alfred to smell his shampoo, the sweet clean scent mixing with his beading sweat.

As Alfred bucked and gasped beneath him, panting hotly, Ivan gradually picked up pace and fell into a hard-thrusting rhythm, adding audibly lewd squelches and slaps of flesh on flesh to Alfred's wanton, lust-filled moans.

"_Ahh!_" Alfred trilled, rubbing his own aching arousal along the sheets beneath him, seeking purchase. _"Ah, mmh… Yes, just like that! Yes, ah – ah – yes! Oh god, just like that!"_

Relief flooded through every nerve and fibre of his being, soaking his mind in a soup of hazy pleasure, and it was a welcomed change from the heat of the all-consuming fire of his base smutty needs, the one he woke up to every evening, hot and flushed and _begging_ for release. It could only be quenched by a client, they told him, they _made_ him that way – and he was entirely without shame as he moaned and writhed, egging Ivan on with every roll of his hips and sighing demands for more.

_Don't stop,_ he pleaded internally as Ivan pounded into him rough and hard, sending shoots of pleasure singing up and down the length of his body, to the very tips of his fingers and toes. _Yes, just like that, it feels so good… oh, don't stop!_

It was as he floated in the throes of gratification just like this that he was caught unawares. Ivan, breathing rough and ragged, brought his lips to the flushed shell of Alfred's ear, and whispered, "I'm going to save you."

Alfred blinked. There was a weight of sincerity behind Ivan's words, and it snapped him momentarily out of his selfish, debauched stupor. His heart began to race, thudding an incessant rhythm in his eardrums, and he stared blankly at the sheets before him, feeling Ivan's words reaching for something deep within him…

Ivan let out another juddering breath – his client was nearing his climax, Alfred could tell – and in a low roll of breath Ivan hoarsely whispered, "I'm going to save you, Alfred. I swear it."

* * *

**Author's note**

This part is a little short as it's purely smut, hohoho! It's based entirely off a page from Shieunni's recalibrated!AU doodles on Tumblr. And yeah. This is the 'climax' of the story. I hope it lived up to expectations ^^;

I just want to thank everyone who's left a review! Some reviews have been very interesting, and one was informative in particular - the _Doctor Who_ episode I ripped off the concept for a patch drug was from season three in an episode called _Gridlock_ (thank you AnimeApprentice!).

* * *

**EDIT:** I've gotten a review from Vyke95, which I was unable to reply to directly since it was written as a guest. Please check my Tumblr fic blog for the reply in full, link is in my profile page, but I will say this much here and now...

**Everything that happens in this chapter – every kiss, every fingering, every goddamn fuck – is entirely my own work. This sex scene is freaking mine and I will claim it bold if I have to. I own it. It's mine. I imagined it in it's entirety and put words to it. It's mine, all my own work.**

The comic page I've based the sex scene from is only three panels long, and it's a little part at the end with the dialogue about saving Alfred. The reason why I keep referring to Shieunni's doodles on Tumblr, and keep taking bits from them, is because they were the first inspiration for my fic and I am paying homage to her work. She has read this story and is fine with me taking inspirations from her.

I'll just leave it here for now. Thank you for reading.


End file.
